


Ah, Fuck

by tamxiety



Series: Ah, Fuck [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/F, Gen, Vigilante AU, Violence, probably a bunch of tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamxiety/pseuds/tamxiety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is minding her own damn business when she is unexpectedly thrust into a night she won't forget.</p>
<p>"When the woman comes flying through her gallery window, Clarke prides herself on not screaming. Sure, she drops an expensive painting on the ground and tumbles backward into a separate display, but she doesn’t scream."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ah, Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spiritual successor to another fic of mine called 'work a little less, play a little more'. It's told in similar style, but was inspired by my marathoning of Daredevil Season 2. Any mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

**11:23pm Wednesday**

 

When the woman comes flying through her gallery window, Clarke prides herself on not screaming. Sure, she drops an expensive painting on the ground and tumbles backward into a separate display, but she doesn’t scream. The spray of glass creates noise enough. Coupled with the thump of a body smacking into the wood floor, it’s nearly overwhelming. 

The woman--clad in nothing but a leather jacket, a white t-shirt, and jeans--hits the floor heavily. The impact pushes glass further across the floor, so Clarke scrambles backs, crab-crawling behind the counter. Another gunshot rips through the air, the bullet burying itself several feet above her head. A small bit of drywall drops to the floor and, in a haze of shock, Clarke feels annoyed that the realtor lied about every wall in the building being backed by brick. That annoyance is quickly wiped away by three more shots flying through the air. She hears the gun (guns?) fire again, but instead of the sound of drywall disintegrating, there is a pained grunt. Not even a second later, the woman tumbles over the top of the counter and lands awkwardly next to Clarke.

“Shit.” She snarls, hand pressed to the bloody splotch forming on her right side. Clarke stares at it like it’s some kind of mirage, blinking slowly as another round of bullets goes overhead. 

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks. The woman turns her head, glancing first at the blood on her shirt and then at the bullet holes in the wall.

“Yeah. Obviously.” She says. The lack of panic in the other woman’s eyes breaks through Clarke’s shock. Someone was taking shots at this woman, in her art gallery, and there was blood dripping onto the floor. 

“Who are you?” The woman bleeding on her floor didn’t answer, not right away. Six or seven (Clarke can’t keep track) more bullets zip past before the woman shifts toward her. 

“Lexa.” The woman chuckles. Huh. With the way this ‘Lexa’ entered her life, Clarke was expecting her name to be something along the lines of ‘Katija’ or ‘Bond. Janice Bond.’ or ‘Bullet Target’. 

“Why are you being shot at, Lexa?”

“Death comes for us all, lady.” 

“Do you find this funny?” Clarke sputters. Lexa smiles at her, but there is a tightness around her eyes that says otherwise. The crunch of boots on glass at the front of the gallery causes Lexa’s head to whip around. 

“Shit.” Her hand shoots out and wraps around Clarke’s arm, smearing blood down her bare skin. Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. The blood is warm and sticky, like syrup. 

“Come on.” Lexa says, dragging Clarke across the ground. Clearly, this stranger wants to leave the only cover in the  _ entire _ room, with the knowledge that there are people with weapons  _ in  _ gallery. A burst of what sounds like Russian comes from the entrance and makes Lexa pause.

“Where’s the exit?” Lexa hisses under her breath. Shaking, Clarke points the door about two feet away from them. Lexa nods.

“That’s good for us,” A bullet tears through the counter, “But we need to go. Now.”

Quickly, Lexa’s eyes flash around they’re hiding spot. A fire extinguisher hangs on the wall behind them, blessedly untouched by any bullets. Lexa rips it off the wall easily. Before Clarke can blink, she tosses it over the countertop. A shot rings out, but it’s drowned out by the thundering explosion the extinguisher creates when the bullet pierces its side. 

Under a burst of white smoke and chemicals, Clarke feels herself being tugged out of the back exit. The back of the gallery is small, filled with shelves and paintings and sculptures. It’s only her knowledge of the layout that keeps Clarke from falling on her face. Lexa runs as though she’s not bleeding from a wound on her side, slamming a shoulder into the alley door and throwing it open with force. 

When the warm night air rushes into Clarke’s throat, it takes all of her willpower not to choke on it. The street lights are casting an orange-y glow down on them as Lexa rushes her towards the sidewalk. There is a big black SUV parked in the front of her gallery, one that Lexa immediately jerks away from. She’s swearing under her breath, her bloody hand having slid from Clarke’s arm to being wrapped around her fingers. They take a sharp left at the first corner they reach. 

“Are you, like, a criminal or something?” Clarke gasps. Lexa is running very fast, like she actually exercises, and Clarke’s having trouble keeping up. It’s even sadder that Lexa is losing blood by the second and she’s still hitting an Olympic pace.

“Not a criminal.” Lexa says, though she’s barely paying attention to Clarke. The gallery is located on the border of Chinatown and before she knows it, the bright neon signs and smell of cooking food are weaving themselves into her senses. 

“You wanna tell me why you’re being shot at?”

“I may have pissed some people off by preventing them from doing business.”

“ _ May have _ ?” Clarke laughs, “You’re bleeding from a gunshot wound!”

Ahead of them, Lexa sees something she doesn’t like and it shows. She darts to the side and into a tiny restaurant, Yung Sun Seafood. The interior is packed with people and lit up by string lights and lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A few people notice their wild arrival, one woman even chokes on her chicken. Lexa muscles past a server and makes a beeline to the kitchen. Behind them, the entranceway busts open and a stream of Russian yells follows. A few people scream, but Clarke can’t hear them all that well when the clamor of the kitchen washes over her. Lexa has sped up, if that was even possible, and the blood trapped between their hands has dried on Clarke’s palm. 

The first gunshot clangs into a pan hanging from the ceiling. The next smashes into a head of cabbage. The kitchen staff all dive in different directions. Someone spills a bottle of soy sauce that gets all over Clarke’s legs. In the back of her mind, she’s praying that no one gets hurt, that none of these innocent Chinese food enjoyers takes a bullet because she’s running through some random restaurant with a woman who only  _ says  _ she’s not a criminal. 

Yet, she doesn't have time to consider everything. For the second time that night, they are running out into an alley. But, unlike their first time,  _ this  _ time Lexa stops and pushes Clarke behind a dumpster. Almost as soon as Clarke is behind it, Yung Sun’s back door unleashes four, heavily armed men into the alley. 

From where she’s peeking around the pungent dumpster, Clarke can see Lexa charge straight at the first, yanking the barrel of the gun upward. The gun fires into the night air before Lexa sends its owner crashing backward into his accomplices. She uses the butt of the gun to knock the second man out of the way and then her foot push the third and fourth into each other. The second guy scrambles up and snares Lexa in a headlock, but she smashes her head upward into his nose. Three and Four try to fire at her, but Two’s body quickly turns into an effective human shield. She runs at them with her bleeding shield and manages to knock Three to the side before dropping Two and smashing Four’s head with the door. In a last ditch effort, Three tries to get back up, but Lexa’s fist connecting with the side of his head dissuades him of that.  

Fortunately, when Lexa turns around, there’s a smile on her face. Unfortunately, when Lexa turns around, there’s a gun pressed to Clarke’s temple. The first Russian smells of cigars and gunpowder and the cold muzzle of his gun is scarily real against her skin. Lexa’s face immediately hardens.

“Let her go.” She says, voice low. 

“Fucking put your hands up.” Says the Russian. He’s got a thick accent. His hand is on Clarke’s shoulder. In surprise, she notices that it’s trembling, like he’s scared. With the sound of his heavy breathing in her ear, she might bet that he  _ was  _ scared. She would be scared too--Lexa looks like a demon with her bloody hands and the pile of bodies around her. But, for some reason, when Clarke looks at the way Lexa’s eyes are trained on the gun to her head, she doesn’t feel scared.

“Let. Her. Go.” Lexa repeats, taking a step towards them. The Russian’s grip on her tightens. Lexa takes another step. The gun moves from Clarke to Lexa. With the gun away from her, Clarke tries to think. The Russian only has one hand on the gun and another on her, she has two free hands, and Lexa has a gun pointed a her. The decision comes to her with a bright warning label, but....who reads labels? Clarke readies herself to try to grab the gun.

There’s a bang and the Russian jerks forward. Clarke feels a warm spray on her face and the Russian falls away from her. This time, she does scream. It’s a second late but there is a dead body at her feet, so it seems justified. Lexa is already pulling her away, eyes locked on something behind Clarke. Clarke lets Lexa move her, trying to figure out how there is a dead man on the ground when Lexa doesn’t have a weapon. The answer walks out of the shadows from the other end of the alley.

“Ground War,” Lexa says. A short woman with braided hair and some serious body armor is standing in the alley with them. She has a sword strapped to her back and at least three guns holstered on her body. And (to add to the fear factor she already had going) her eyes were almost entirely obscured by two black smudges of face paint. 

She’s quite clearly a vigilante, one of the ones that had been in the news in recent months, dealing with crime in a way that was more brutally effective than the police. Clarke had heard the stories, seen the papers, yet when presented with the real deal, she couldn’t even fathom how her night had gotten so screwed up.

“When are you gonna learn to carry a weapon, Lexa?” Ground War says. 

“Who the hell are you?” Clarke yells. This woman looked like a cross between G.I Joe and a hunting expo. Ground War shoots her a glance. 

“They call me Ground War. I guess I’ll accept that as a ‘thank you’ for saving your life.”

“What...” Clarke wheezes. This is all too much at once. Who the  _ fuck  _ were these people? She’s about to start demanding answers when Lexa slumps forward. Clarke barely catches her before she hits the ground. 

“Oh, God. Oh, shit.” Lexa’s eyelids are fluttering and the blood stain on her shirt has spread exponentially. Cautiously, Clarke lifts the shirt up. There is no bullet hole, but from the looks of it, the horrific looking gash running perpendicular to Lexa’s side is causing problems.

“S’just a graze.” Lexa mumbles.

“She needs medical attention.” Clarke says. Ground War seems to agree. 

“No hospitals!” Obviously, Lexa doesn’t.

“You need a doctor,” Clarke snaps, “You don’t have a choice.” 

The lack of an answer beyond a tired mumble is telling. Lexa is barely keeping her head up at this point, so Clarke makes a decision. Grunting, she slings Lexa’s arm and weight onto herself and gestures for Ground War to do the same. 

“We need to get to a hospital. Fast.”

“I have an idea.”

 

**12:03am**

 

How Clarke ended up driving an SUV stolen from the Russian mob up to the doorstep of a hospital, she didn’t know. How she managed to keep Lexa from bleeding out on the frantic ride there, she  _ really  _ didn’t know. How she was going to explain this? She really,  _ really  _ didn’t know.

Ground War had left them to fend for themselves while she dealt with the chaos at Yung Sun, which meant that Clarke was completely alone in keeping Lexa alive long enough to get a real doctor to see her.

She barely gets the car in park before she is dragging Lexa’s limp body through the doors. The nurse at the front desk sees the bloody covering them both and immediately comes to Clarke’s aid, bearing the weight of Lexa’s other side.

“Call ER,” The nurse yells to another nurse, “Tell them we have a--”

“Gunshot wound.” Clarke interjects.

“GSW,” The nurse continues, “We need a gurney.”

Several orderlies in scrubs appear out of nowhere and ease Lexa onto a rolling gurney. The whole time, Clarke jogs beside the procession, giving the nurse information on the wound and how Lexa received it. It’s all lies of course, because Ground War had given her specific instructions not to divulge Lexa’s identity or why she had been shot to hospital staff. Hell, Clarke didn't even know why Lexa had been shot in the first place.

When they get through the first double door of the emergency room, the original nurse tries to stop Clarke from going any further.

“Ma’am, we’re gonna need you to wait outside.”

“No, you don’t understand--”

“Ma’am.”

“That’s--that’s my, my girlfriend! My girlfriend!” Clarke’s mind is going a mile a minute, but her mouth is way ahead of her. 

“Please, she’s...my girlfriend. She has no next of kin.” It’s flimsy, she knows it. The nurse looks at the blood on Clarke’s hands and then back at her face. For the first time, Clarke remembers that there is blood on her face, too. She peers at herself in the dull reflection of one of the door’s windows. She looks like hell. 

“Listen,” The nurse says under her breath, “I’ll let you in, but you can’t see her until after they get her out of the OR.”

“I...okay. Okay, fine.” The scent of chemicals and blood is strong in the air. That, and soy sauce. Clarke looks down at her legs. They are sticky and slightly brown. The canvas of her shoes is also brown. 

She takes the Wet Wipes the nurse offers her without question.

 

**1:27am**

 

When Nurse Kelley (Clarke found out her name) comes to get her, Clarke braces herself. For some reason, it is very important to her that Lexa is okay. Well, more important than any other random stranger with a gunshot wound.

“She’s out and she’s doing alright. The bullet grazed her pretty badly, but it didn’t leave any holes, so that’s a positive.” 

“Can I see her?”

“Right this way.” Nurse Kelley leads Clarke down the hall and into a different room. Lexa is in it, in a bed and eyes closed. She looks surprisingly healthy for someone who just got operated on.

“The doctor will be in to speak with you in a moment.” Nurse Kelley says, slipping out of the room. Lexa’s eyes are still closed, so Clarke takes a minute to truly look at the woman she’d been running with all night. Undoubtedly, Lexa is stunning. Even with a deep bruise forming on her cheek and a split lip, she’s a sculpted goddess, like something Clarke would display in the gallery. Her hair is mostly straight, but the humidity of the night has forced it to curl over at the tips a bit. It's the kind of face that deserves artistic study--something that may have happened had the door banging open not broken Clarke from her staring.

“Hello, I’m Dr.Griffin and I believe Kelley told me you were the girlfriend of...Leslie, here. But, Kelly didn’t give me a--” As soon as Clarke hears her voice, she knows things have just taken a quick fucking trip south. 

“Hey, mom.”

 

**1:34am**

 

“So, you mean to tell me that you, my daughter, are the girlfriend of this Leslie Cope?” Abby Griffin is not pleased to see her daughter standing next to her fake-girlfriend, but real gunshot wound-survivor. 

“Yes.”

“Who you were with when she was accidentally grazed by a stray bullet while you were out to dinner in Chinatown?”

“Yes.” 

“When you didn’t call for an ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“And you also expect me to believe that Leslie Cope is her real name and not ‘Leslie Knope’ with two letters changed?”

“Yes, because that is her real name.”

Truthfully, it could be going worse. At least, after her mother had assured herself that Clarke was free of any wounds of her own, she hadn't been booted from the room or put under lock and key by an overprotective, pHD-holding parent. Her mother seemed to at least believe their story, due in part, probably, to the fact that Lexa was still passed out. 

“Clarke, this woman refused morphine while on the operating table.”

“Uh, yeah. She does things like that.”

“The only reason she isn't screaming in agony right now is because when she finally passed out from the pain, we gave her the barest of doses to get her through the procedure.” Abby sighs. Clarke shifts her feet. She knows her mother is looking for holes to poke in her story. It would make sense, since her only child  _ did  _ show up in an emergency room in the dead of night with a bleeding woman. She reaches back to grasp Lexa’s hand, like a girlfriend would. It's actually much more pleasant when it’s not slick with blood. There are callouses all over Lexa’s fingers and the top of her palm, though the skin at the center is much softer. Abby’s eyes scrutinize the action, but she says nothing.

“Will you tell me what you were going to tell me?” Clarke asks. Her mother rubs the bridge of her nose and nods.

“She had a severe laceration on her right side, inflicted by a gunshot, as well as a few other, unexplained injuries. We stopped the bleeding and stitched the wound back together. She lost a decent amount of blood, but she should be okay.” 

“Alright.” Clarke sighs. Wearily, she drags a chair next to Lexa’s bed. Her mother watches her do it, frowning the whole time. Abby wants to say something, that’s for sure. So, Clarke waits for....30 seconds.

“What are you doing, Clarke?” Abby’s shoulders hang low, drawing her white coat taut across her back. Her mother has seen many things, dealt with wounds worse and larger in number than what Lexa has, yet seeing her own child involved in a shooting seems to be taking a toll on her.

“Sitting next to my girlfriend. Who was shot.”

“Clarke...”

“Look, mom, I’m sorry I didn’t call you or an ambulance. I just...I made a decision.”

“Are you okay?” The question catches Clarke off guard. While Nurse Kelley had given her a medical ‘okay’ and Abby had double checked that within a minute of seeing her, whether or not she was okay mentally was still up in the air. Here she was, in a hospital, lying to her mother about how and why she dragged Lexa here, as well as who Lexa was. And, now that her adrenaline was tanking, she was tired. Dead tired.

“Yeah, mom, I’m okay.”

“Well, this conversation isn’t over....but, I’m glad you’re safe.” Abby says, “And, I’m sorry but I need to go deal with another patient. I’ll be back soon.”

As soon as her mother leaves the room, Clarke sags into her chair. The muscles in her legs are burning and she can still kind of smell soy sauce coming from somewhere on her body. Hysterical laughter bubbles in her chest and she lets it out without a struggle. It hurts her lungs a little bit, but she’ll take any release she can get. The room is quiet except for the sound of her laughing. The calm is almost surreal.

“So, I’m your girlfriend, huh?” When Lexa speaks up, Clarke nearly jumps through the roof. She smacks a hand on her own chest.

“Jesus! Lexa, what the fuck--”

“I told them no morphine, those bastards.” Lexa mutters. She reaches to the IV sticking out her arm and is about to pull it out before Clarke snatches her hand away.

“Are you crazy? You just got operated on!” 

“I know, I was there.”

“Lexa,” Clarke hisses, struggling to keep her from the IV, “Lexa, Jesus Christ.”

“You know, normally I don’t meet the parents this early.”

“Can you shut up and stop!” Clarke snaps. She has to stand fully out of the chair to pin Lexa’s free arm to the bed. Lexa stops fighting and gives Clarke an exasperated look, like she’s inconveniencing her by forcing her to receive medical attention. 

“I need to know, before you say another word,” Clarke continues, “if you are one of those vigilantes that run around the city.”

Silence. Then, Lexa’s eyes squeeze shut and that’s answer enough. To be fair, Clarke had pretty much already figured it out. Being chased by the Russian mob and then saved by another vigilante (who knew Lexa’s name) was a bit of a red herring. But the confirmation is helpful. 

“Lexa--”

“I’m just trying to help my neighborhood. My people.” Lexa says, softly. Maybe it’s the morphine, but she has lost the look of total, analytical control Clarke had seen when she crashed into the gallery and stared down a gunman. Now she looks as tired as Clarke feels. 

“I...understand.” Clarke says. Their eyes meet. Lexa has really pretty eyes. The bruising underneath actually makes them look brighter, if that’s possible. They are also old-looking eyes, like Lexa had been around the world and back and been disappointed by what she had seen. Weary eyes.

“You were going to grab the Russian’s gun, weren’t you? In the alley.” A small smile ticks up the corner of Lexa’s mouth, masking the emotions in her gaze. Clarke blushes and looks away.

“Yeah, I mean...well, I thought...yeah.”

“That would have brave. Stupid but brave.”

“Funny, I would use those words to describe you.” Clarke laughs, before realizing she still has Lexa’s hand pressed into the bed. Hastily, she drops it. Thankfully, Lexa doesn’t go for the IV again.

“So, your name is Clarke?” Lexa is harsh on the ‘k’ in her name. It snaps in her mouth like a whip, clear and simple. Clarke smiles at her. 

“Yes. I guess there wasn’t time for that when we were being shot at.”

“Nobody got hurt at Yung Sun’s, right?” Lexa asks, face falling into a frown.

“No, not according to your buddy Ground War, but apparently after we left she was going to do a full sweep.”

Lexa opens her mouth to reply, but Nurse Kelley entering the room interrupts her. The nurse has a serious look on her face. Fake names don’t have health insurance, Clarke thinks, so she may have to result to hitting up her own insurer to cover a goddamn vigilante. 

“There is a man here.” Oh, so it’s not insurance. But it’s definitely not good. “He is asking questions. He said something about looking for a woman and mentioned the car you arrived in.”

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers, “How did you get me here?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Clarke! How?”

“The Russians’ SUV.” Clarke winces. Lexa’s eyes widen almost comically. Not a second later, she’s tearing the IV out of her arm. Nurse Kelley moves like she’s going to try and stop her, but Lexa is already out of the bed and throwing her bloody clothes back on. 

“Ma’am! You need to lay down.” Nurse Kelley goes ignored. A steady string of swears is bouncing rampant in Clarke’s head and the hair on the back of her neck are standing up. The SUV had a GPS, a tracker. Fuck being tired, her adrenaline was making an appreciated comeback. 

“Clarke, you need to stay here.” Lexa has one arm in her jacket and another furiously shoving her boots on. “It’s not safe.”

“Hell no! What if they know who I am?” If someone had asked her about the possibility of her being on the Russian hitlist earlier that day, Clarke would have laughed.

“Ah, fuck!” Lexa bites out. Air whooshes by Clarke and suddenly she is being tugged into Lexa’s jetstream. Nurse Kelley watches them scramble out of the room with a dumbfounded look on her face. Over her shoulder and through two sets of doors, Clarke can see a man, dressed in all black, speaking to a nurse. A babble of something incoherent falls out of Clarke mouth, directed (sort of) at Lexa. Even though the woman  _ just  _ got stitches  _ and  _ morphine, she’s barreling down the cream-colored hallway at breakneck speed. 

“Hold on, hold on.” Clarke sputters. With all her might, she steers Lexa to the right, ducking into one of the employee locker rooms. Lexa spins on her as soon as they’re inside.

“What are you doing! We need to go!”

“Lexa, think for two seconds! You’re covered in blood and wearing the same clothes as when you got shot at. You’re going to stick out!” Lexa’s eyes are blazing with fury and feverishness. Her jaw is clenched and twitching and she’s favoring her right side, more wild animal than functioning person. Clarke holds her hands up, then throws open the nearest locker.

“Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.” It takes two lockers for Clarke to find what she’s looking for. Two sweatshirts, a gray one and a black one, folded and placed delicately on top of a gym bag. She tosses the black one to Lexa and keeps the gray one for herself. Lexa catches it and tries to put it on as speedily as possible, growling when she pulls at her stitches. 

“Stay behind me.” She says, after it’s on and her leather jacket is on the floor. They press up against the locker room door, Lexa with her neck craned to see out of the window. 

“Coast is clear.” She whispers. Quietly, she slides the door open and leads Clarke out by her hand. The linoleum squeaks slightly under Clarke’s sneakers, but she tries not to freak out about it. They make it about four feet when Lexa freezes and glances backward. Behind them, there is muffled shouting and the sound of something smashing. Then, from Lexa’s room, a simply massive man in black comes striding out. There isn’t even time for Clarke to process what he looks like because Lexa starts sprinting again, beelining for the nearest stairwell. When they reach it, she practically throws Clarke through the door.

“Shit! It’s Quint.” Lexa gasps out as they go down the stairs two at a time. The name Quint means nothing to Clarke, but the man in the hallway was inarguably scary as  _ fucking hell _ . 

“What do we do?”

“We need to get away from him. What hospital are we in?” 

“New York Downtown - Chinatown.”

“Okay, shit, okay. We need to get in a crowd.” The arrival of the ground floor sends them back into the bustle of the hospital. Lexa yanks Clarke’s hood over her head and then does the same to herself. It’s an awkward, flighty speed walk to the exit, through a family with crying toddlers, drunk college students, and (thankfully) no Russian mobsters. 

Once outside, Lexa is immediately scanning their surroundings. To Clarke, every passing person looks like a potential threat, so she stands as casually as possible, let’s the vigilante do her work and tries to calm her jittery heart. 

“There’s a park.” Lexa says. A park? Clarke nearly jolts out of her own skin when a man on the phone brushes by her.  A park will have to do.

“Will there even be people there?” Clarke asks as they walk. Lexa shrugs.

“It’s not that late.”

“It’s past midnight.” 

“So?” As it turns out, Lexa is correct. The basketball courts in the park are surrounded by a sizable group of people watching a pick up game. Hazy curls of smoke drift through the air from several different places, the smell of it disguised by the scent of Indian food coming from an assortment of plastic bags on empty picnic tables. Half of the people milling around aren’t even watching the game, they are just chatting and smoking socially. From somewhere closer to the court, a boombox is playing music. The song is ‘X Gon Give It To Ya’, which Clarke notices offhandedly. A cheer goes up when one of the teams scores a basket. 

Lexa leads them to the chain link backstop behind one of the hoops. They have to weave though a few conversations and someone shouts at them for being rude. But when they get to the backstop, Clarke realizes it’s the perfect location--in the group, but not quite at the center. 

Lexa pulls Clarke close to her, angling them so that it looks like they are having an intimate conversation when, in reality, Lexa is looking around wildly over Clarke’s head, searching for signs of Quint or any other Russians. Except, because of the way they are standing, she doesn’t see the black SUV roll up on the curb several meters away, nor the two men that get out of it. 

“Lexa.” Clarke hisses. The two men are moving quickly, but they obviously don’t see them or they would be dead already. Panicking, she grabs Lexa’s shoulders. 

“Wha--” Okay. Were the circumstances different, Clarke would have asked. But they aren’t, so when she grabs the soft edge of Lexa’s hood and pulls her down, there isn’t time for an apology.

Kissing a vigilante isn’t much different from kissing any other person, except that Clarke has to pay special attention to being gentle on Lexa’s split lip. At first, the other woman freezes in shock. Her hands flutter uselessly in the air while a muffled ‘mrrph’ of surprise gets silenced between them.

Clarke is pulling on her hood to obscure their faces as best she can, a task that becomes a lot easier when Lexa finally gathers what she’s doing. She shifts forward, pushing Clarke against the backstop, a hand curled into the chainlink on either side of her head. Clarke can feel her heart hammering through the fabric of her sweatshirt. Lexa’s mouth tastes like blood, metallic and sharp. Her lips are chapped and swollen too. It’s good though, it’s really good. 

In the background, footsteps scrape past them on the pavement. Lexa moves, breaking the kiss, and brushes their noses together as she dips her head. Clarke’s hands drop and fist around the hem of Lexa’s sweatshirt. 

“What do you see?” Lexa mumbles into the crook of Clarke’s neck. 

“Two men, walking through the crowd. They’ve already passed us.”

“Armed?”

“I can’t tell. You’ll be able to see them in a second.” 

“Okay.” The brush of Lexa’s breath on her skin makes the hairs on Clarke’s neck tingle. Although, the impending danger could also be playing a role. So far, no one has taken a shot at them, which is a positive. But Lexa hasn’t moved yet. Experimentally, Clarke lays both hands on her back. The muscles there are tense and twitching. 

“Are they still there?” 

“Yes.” Lexa says, “They’re by the court.”

“Can we get away?”

“I don’t know where Quint is.” Another cheer comes from the game. Nearby, a group of people are giving them funny looks, which is valid given that the way they are pressed against each other borders on public indecency. 

“What if he’s not here?”

“Then that is good for us.” Lexa’s hands tighten on the backstop. “Son of a bitch! I don’t think we’ll be so lucky.”

“What?”

“When I move, drop and roll. Then get the hell out of here.” In a blink, Lexa is pushing off the backstop. Clarke heart nearly stops in the space of time between there being a safe, warm, capable person in front of her and then hurling herself to the ground and feeling the skin of her knees and hands rub raw on the pavement. It’s a good thing she does it, because it moves her out of range of the two men hurtling into Lexa. Apparently, mobsters were smarter than given credit for. Or maybe they had taken a wild guess and been right. Regardless, they had found their target.

A growing chorus of yells comes from the crowd as more and more people notice that a fight is breaking out in their midst. Nearly everyone bolts from the area, clearly aware of that this was no ordinary street brawl. 

“Go!” Lexa roars while she grapples with one of the Russians. She has his pistol held above both of their heads, and had somehow knocked his partner over in the millisecond Clarke had been falling to the ground. A shot goes off, to no avail. Lexa slams her foot into the man’s stomach and twists the gun in his hands. He jerks backward, stumbling over the other Russian. Lexa tosses the gun away and dives for the second man, punching him square in the face repeatedly. The first scrambles back up to push her off. She ducks him and rolls away, her hair having freed itself from the hoodie. He goes for her again, but her boot connects with his shin. Lexa lurches forward to wrap her arms around his neck, bringing his body to ground with her. The Russian flails wildly against her grip, kicking and spitting, but he’s not getting out any time soon. Lexa holds him there until his whole frame slumps and then lets his limp body roll off of her. She stands shakily. 

“Why didn’t you leave?” She pants. Clarke is about the reply when something very large and very fast comes flying across her vision. It hits Lexa like a truck, ramming her into the backstop. A yelp of pain tears from the woman, followed by a guttural snarl. The thing holding her is a man, bald and muscular, and he was currently driving his fist into Lexa’s stomach. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” He screams at her. Desperately, Lexa kicks him off. He manages a glancing blow to her face before she can fully escape, knocking her sideways. 

“Actually, Quint,” Lexa says, spitting blood from her mouth, “I was hoping you would.”

Quint is an absolutely hulking man wrapped in a black coat and tactical boots. His hands are comparable to baseball gloves, and are currently clenched like talons ready to tear Lexa apart. He smiles sadistically, then charges for her again. She dodges the first punch, catches the second, but can’t stop the third from hitting her hard in the chest. Clarke can hear the wind rush out of her. Lexa trips backward, catching herself on the backstop. 

“My bosses have had enough of you messing with their shit.” Quint sneers. From somewhere on his body, he whips out a knife. It gleams in the lights from the court and the sight of it makes Clarke’s heart drop. Lexa eyes the weapon, hands at the ready. Quint lunges for her, slashing the knife in every direction. Reflexes and and luck are the only things that keep Lexa from being on the receiving end of its serrated edge. 

The fight shifts to a game of cat and mouse, almost like a dance, but nowhere near that elegant. Quint attacks aggressively and frequently, but he has yet to connect with his target. Lexa, for her part, avoids him, but it’s clear that she is lagging. Each swing of the knife is a near miss, and Quint can tell. He gets more confident, herding Lexa towards the street. There’s nowhere for her to go, so when her back smacks into a parked car, she doesn’t have a chance to get away from his sweeping leg. He grabs her while she’s off balance, a hand around her neck, and raises the knife. Lexa struggles but she can’t overpower him, not in her current state. Quint forces her further back, the point of the knife inches from her chest.

“Don’t! Put the knife down, or I shoot.” Clarke Griffin, artist and daughter of a doctor, has never held a gun. Not until tonight. Now, she has the discarded mobster’s pistol pressed to Quint’s head. The man freezes. Slowly, he withdraws the knife. Lexa is looking at Clarke with something akin to amazement in her eyes.

“You’re not going to shoot me, bitch.” Quint laughs. 

“Uh, no. I’m not.” Clarke jerks the gun back and smashes the butt of it into Quint’s temple, “Bitch.”

Quint drops like a brick. The knife falls from his hand and clatters on the ground. Clarke kicks it away before crouching down next to Lexa, who has collapsed into a seated position against the car. There is blood on her mouth and she’s clutching her right side. In the distance, police sirens are echoing. 

“We have to go.” Lexa groans. She pushes her free hand on the ground to leverage herself up. 

“Back to the hospital.” Clarke says, pointedly.

“No, I can’t. People aren’t supposed to know who I am.”

“You probably ripped every single stitch you had.”

“That’s not my fault, is it?” Lexa says, gesturing to Quint and the other Russians, “And, hey, stop waving that around.”

Clarke pauses and remembers she still has a gun in her hand. Suddenly, it feels like her arm can’t even support its weight anymore. But when she goes to throw it, Lexa stop her.

“Keep it.” She says, “It’s definitely unregistered, but you should hang on to it, just in case.”

The police sirens are growing closer now, forcing them into action. Lexa is intent upon remaining an identity-less vigilante, as well as ignoring Clarke’s demands that she go back to the hospital. Instead, she staggers away from Quint and strips the other two Russians of any weapons. Two guns and Quint’s knife all find their way to the nearest trash can. When Lexa limps back to Clarke, she has a somber look on her face.

“You should stay here. The police will make sure you get home safe.”

“Who’s going to make sure  _ you _ get home safe?” Clarke fires back. Lexa opens her mouth to respond, but Clarke serves her a withering stare.

“You need to get those stitches looked at.” Clarke continues, “My apartment isn’t far from here and I have a first aid kit. It’s that or I drag you to the hospital.”

Maybe it’s pain, maybe it’s the impending police crew, or maybe she’s just finally seeing sense, but Lexa doesn’t argue. A nice change of pace. Clarke takes the vigilante’s arm around her shoulders to support her right side as they walk away from the scene. They make it half a block when the police pull up and Lexa forces Clarke to wait so she can personally see all three men manhandled into handcuffs for disturbing the peace. If things went well, their outstanding criminal records would put them behind bars. 

Clarke watches Lexa stare across the park. The weariness she had seen in the hospital is still there, but now it’s coupled with a fierce look of triumph. She likes it.

 

**2:57am**

 

Through a combination of limping, shuffling, and a discreet cab, Clarke and Lexa make it back to Clarke’s modest apartment in Soho. As soon as lights are on and they’re in the door, Clarke is depositing Lexa on her sofa and pulling her first aid kit out of it’s dusty drawer in the kitchen. 

“So, explain to me why you don’t think they will find us here?” Clarke asks as she unzips the bag and rifles around. One of the perks of having a doctor in the family is that they always know how to properly stock a first aid kit. 

“Because they don’t know who you are and then don’t know who I am beyond a name that connects to nothing. The only reason they found us at the hospital is because of the GPS tracker they put in all of their cars.”

“My bad.” Clarke snorts. 

“Rookie mistake.” Lexa smirks, “Though, Ground War should have known. She’s a bit green too.”

“Why don’t you have a cool name like that? Is Lexa even your real name?”

“Because I never thought of one. And, yes, Lexa is my real name--but, as I said, no one could ever find me under it.”

“You should have a name.” Clarke says. She hands Lexa an antiseptic wipe and kneels next to the sofa. Miraculously, only one stitch came undone in the fight, though there is an intense smattering of bruises all across her abdomen. 

“Like what?”

“Uh....like,  _ the Commander _ , or something. Because you’ve been kind of bossy to me all night.”

“Oh,  _ I’m  _ sorry for making sure nobody shot you.” Lexa rolls her eyes with a slight grin. Clarke’s hands still in the first aid kit. Lexa really had kept her alive that night.

“Thank you.” She says, “Thank you for keeping me alive.”

Her candor surprises Lexa, causing the battered woman’s eyebrows to jerk up. A light blush, hidden under her bruises, colors her cheeks. Lexa drops a red, scraped hand to Clarke’s shoulder.

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” She says seriously, “You saved my life with Quint.” 

“I guess we’re even then.” Clarke says, focusing her attention back on pulling fresh gauze and tape from the bag. Lexa’s fingers tap unevenly on the arm of the couch.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” She exhales, “I never meant to put you in danger.”

“Well, I am pissed that you smashed through my window, but I’m glad we both made it out okay.” Lexa’s eyes flick down to the bloody wound on her side. “Mostly okay.”

They fall into silence, Clarke changing the bloody gauze and Lexa doing her best not to groan every time Clarke inadvertently touches somewhere tender. Clarke’s hands shake slightly while she tapes the gauze down. The straight on fucking realness of the night is starting to really sink in. Not only had she survived being shot at multiple times, stolen a car, brought a vigilante to the hospital under a fake name, but she had also pistol whipped a known criminal in a public park. All in the company of the woman whom she had kissed in that public park to avoid being seen by Russian hitmen. It was ludicrous. It seems like Lexa can read her mind, because she starts to open and close her mouth in an attempt to form the right words.

“So, that, uh, kiss in the park...quick thinking.” The whole sentence is full of awkward pauses accented by Lexa’s fidgeting fingers. Her face is black, blue, and bright red. 

“Oh! Yeah, I saw it in a spy movie I think...” Clarke splutters, accidentally sticking her strip of tape to itself. She crumples it up hastily and grabs the roll again.

“Well....well done.” Lexa says. Clarke finishes the tape job without making eye contact. When she’s done, she stands up and claps her hands together. Lexa is still splayed out on her couch, shirt rolled up to her chest. Clarke swallows.

“Listen, I don’t know where you go after you...do your thing, but I think you should stay here tonight. You’re too hurt to be walking the streets alone.” Clarke normally doesn’t invite basic strangers to stay over, but this is an exception. Lexa rolls her shirt back down, a shirt that even seven gallons of bleach probably couldn’t save. Clarke readies herself for an argument, but receives none.

“I don’t want to fight a pistol-whipping badass,” Lexa shrugs, “I’ll do what you say.”

“Great--”

“But, you should rest. I do this every day, but this was your first night of vigilantism.”

“Lexa, no, you have a goddamn bullet wound--”

“Clarke. Go, rest. I won’t be able to with this thing.” Lexa points to her side and leans back against the couch. Clarke frowns, tapping a foot. 

“Fine. But let me give you Advil and fresh clothes.”

“Okay.” Lexa nods. She stays on the sofa while Clarke walks into her bedroom. It’s easy to find an oversized shirt and some sweatpants, but the bottle of Advil gives her some trouble. With each passing second, Clarke wonders if Lexa will be gone when she returns to the living room. She finds the Advil bottle in her nightstand and gathers all of her things in her arms, stomach nervous.

Yet, Lexa is sitting in the exact same position when Clarke comes back. She accepts the Advil gratefully and swallows it without water. Clarke sets the clothes down on the couch. 

“Thank you, Clarke.” Lexa says softly.

“You’re welcome.” Exhaustion is whispering sweet nothings to Clarke’s brian, making her sway slightly where she stands. Lexa notices and gives her another one of those tiny smiles. It reminds Clarke of their spy-kiss, which was much better than anything she had ever seen in a movie. 

“Go, Clarke.” Lexa tells her, “You’re safe. If anyone attacks you tonight, they attack me.”

That night, Clarke falls asleep faster than she ever has, the taste of blood and metal still on her lips.

 

**9:46am**

 

“Holy shit!” Clarke’s eyes fly open to the incessant buzz of her phone on her nightstand. She coughs and blinks, reaching out to slide her fingers across the screen until it finally shuts up. The screen is gritty and sticky and, for a moment, she can’t remember why it would be that way. Then, she sees her palms. They are slightly bruised and there are few small cuts running along the base of her thumb. Memories from the night before come cascading back. 

Lexa. Clarke scrambles out of bed, moaning when her muscles pull and strain. She forces her legs to cooperate and carry her to living room. Which is empty. Disappointment settles heavy in her gut. The first aid kit is still on the ground and there’s a gun on her kitchen counter. Her ‘borrowed’ clothes are still exactly where she left them, obviously untouched.  

Lexa is gone, that much is clear. Clarke is going to get simply  _ annihilated  _ by her mother and the reason for that has up and disappeared. Plus, she needs to get a whole new front window for her gallery. Typical vigilante bullshit. 

Grumbling, Clarke pads to the kitchen to find something to drink, because her mouth is dry as hell. It’s then that she notices the bright yellow sticky note stuck to a lukewarm pot of coffee.

 

_ Thanks. - L _

 

“The fucking nerve...” Clarke rips the note off and brings it closer to her face. In the morning sunlight, she can see that something bled through the back of the sticky. Upon turning it over, she finds a number, presumably Lexa’s number. Also, in the smallest of print, Lexa added a note to the bottom.

 

_ If you ever need anything. _

 

Clarke folds the note over delicately. She smiles, picks the gun on her counter up with two fingers, and drops it in an empty drawer. Then she pours herself a cup of that lukewarm coffee and leans against her counter. Typical vigilante bullshit.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it, comments are always appreciated! Unless you support typical vigilante bullshit. If you do, fuck off.


End file.
